2 (27) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY VI.

ADVICE FROM A BALD-HEADED BARBER.

The sixties (continued). 

So there we were. Middle of the swinging sixties. Two children and a roof over our heads. Not much else. Still, compared to many we were lucky. I certainly was: my young wife had great legs and it was the age of the mini skirt. Financially, though, we were treading water and close to sinking. I had reached the lofty grade of Higher Clerical Officer: the salary was not enough to support a growing family. It was hardly enough to justify a car (even, as it was by then, a little Austin A30), let alone my monthly haircut. But the car was a snip from a friend of my mother and the haircut was an impossible to avoid essential: impossible to avoid because there was a very competent 'short-back-and-sides' barber in the road alongside the office and essential because no self-respecting ex boy soldier would go around with hair like a dosshouse drunk.
Anyway, I liked the barber. Didn't know his name - or he mine – but he always greeted me with: “How are you, sir? And how's the wife?” 
My response to both questions never varied: “Fine, thank you.” This exchange was enacted long before I met Maureen or had any notion I might ever marry. Never asked why he thought marriage suited me; perhaps it was my worried look. 
He had an interesting background which included a spell at a barbershop on Portsmouth Town Station. The senior barber at that time had been a Mr. Morris, a Russian Jewish immigrant justifiably proud of his sons, Aubrey and Wolfe Morris, who were actors.
Such little snippets enlivened our conversation as my barber snipped along. If required, he finished off the haircut with a shampoo which, he maintained, had to be done twice in succession if it was to nurture the hair. He was bald, so it was hair-care advice from a bald-headed barber. 
Did I take it seriously? Of course I did.

 Elsewhere in the world a bunch of people whose barber was probably a 'stylist,' the Rolling Stones, had a huge hit with (I can't get no) Satisfaction. Never did work out why Mick Jagger had that problem. 
In my case it was down to the tightly monitored staffing grades and levels imposed on Executive Councils by the Ministry of Health on behalf of the taxpayer. There was no promotion to be had at Portsmouth; if I wanted a pay rise we would have to move. In the event, Malcolm X had been assassinated, Twiggy had been named face of the year and England had won the FIFA world cup before such an opportunity came along. 
In 1968 experienced officers were invited to apply for the post of Deputy to the Clerk of the Isle of Wight Executive Council (NHS) at Newport, I.W. I applied and, to my surprise (because I never, ever, interviewed well), got the job. 
I reported back to my boss at Pompey with the words: “So you were right when you thought a man who came here from the army wouldn't stay long.” 
He laughed. “How long ago did I say that?” 
It was eleven years. 
We finally moved on 1 July, 1968. I had then been the Island E.C.'s Deputy Clerk/Finance Officer for three months and was beginning to understand the ins and outs of it.

 It took longer to take up residence in our new home (though house buying at that time was not the traumatic experience it is now), but we eventually settled in Wootton Bridge, a village three miles from Newport. The commute was an easy one; there was very little traffic on the roads over here in those days. 
We quickly settled back into the routine of young family life (few concerns outside survival and bathing the kids). 

When, on the 21 July, 1969, Neil Armstrong said: “That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” it barely registered that the swinging sixties were swinging to an end. 
The Barnden family had its own giant leap to consider. Maureen was expecting our third child. 
(Oh yes, I remember the sixties.) 
HOME. 
The election. Went. Voted. Same wet plank with a blue rosette got in. Never accuse islanders of unpredictability.
BOOKS. 
Have read: Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death, by M.C.Beaton, a bread-and-butter yarn from a prolific writer (well, writers have to live, too) and am reading Soul Music by Terry Pratchett and A Spy Among Friends (Philby and the Great Betrayal), by Ben Macintyre. More later on both. 
Mind how you go. 

2 (26) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY V.

IF YOU CAN REMEMBER THEM...

The sixties. 

It has been said, too often, that if you can remember the sixties you weren't there. I can remember them well enough and that says it all. Never in my life smoked pot or wore flowers in my hair and, from my mid-twenties onwards, had little time for the music of the day. Was never a 'teenager' for that matter; they came later. Back in the forties you were just a spotty adolescent. Never lived in a tented commune with the smell of damp clothes and cannabis and free love, either. Might have been a nicer person if I had; but no, all that passed me by. I wasn't there. 

Met my Leader for the first time in 1961 (she tells me). We first went out the day the Berlin Wall went up. I'm not sure whether that signifies anything. We drove, in my Fiat 600, to a pub out in the country that she “had heard was quite nice.” When we got there the owner of the shop where she worked and one of his male assistants just happened to be “having a drink” in the lounge bar. What a coincidence! We had a pleasant evening and as I drove her back home I realized, in silent amusement, that I had just passed the first test: had I not I would have been driving alone and her boss or his assistant would have escorted her home. You'd have to be a complete moron not to admire feminine guile like that. 

The following year we were married: sold the Fiat (complete with fog lights and abarth dual exhaust) to help fund it. Went on honeymoon to Cornwall in a hired Mini with bald tires. Nobody gave a sod in those days. Later bought a former McDonald's fisheries van to drive to and from work. Cats followed me around for months. Well, I like cats. Mo found work with our local newsagent and I carried on working for the NHS (poor money, but one day there would be a pension). 

It was the year The Beatles recorded their first single (Love Me Do), and it was the year Marilyn Monroe died (who knows how). The assassination of JFK in 1963 was less of a surprise than it might have been. In a country where everyone has the right to bear arms, the decision to drive the American President into Dallas in an open car had to be fatally optimistic didn't it? That said, I don't think any of it affected us much. We were new to married life and gently happy. At the beginning of February 1964 our son, Neil, was born at a nursing home in Emsworth, on the Hants/Sussex border. Towards the end of July, 1965, his sister Jacqueline was born at home. Back then, hospital - home - hospital were the advised birthplace venues for successive babies. Might not be the same now. In the NHS, as in education, the police and all the public services, the bureaucratic goalposts were (and still are) constantly changing. It's the prerogative of politicians to meddle and, one way or another, they always do. If I had a thousand quid for every Minister of Health (from Derek Walker-Smith onwards) who was a total twat, I'd be a very rich man. (To be continued) 

READING. 

I finished Terry Pratchett's Men At Arms (published by Gollancz) with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who has come late to Disc World and still has a load more of the series to read. Do I need to laud the genius of the late Sir Terence any more? Surely not. If you've read him you'll know what I mean: if you haven't, get on down to your local bookshop and spend a few quid. You'll not regret it. 

The World According To Noddy (Constable). Noddy Holder's “life lessons learned in and out of rock 'n' roll” is an easy read. Lots of famous name dropping, but if you are as famous as he is you are bound to have lots of famous names to drop. The man is entirely down to earth and it is plain that what you see is what you get. I like Noddy so I liked the book. 

Apropos the above: Our son went to the Reading Rock Festival in 1980 and came back full of how Slade, a last minute booking, had stolen the show.

“You'd have thoroughly enjoyed it, Dad,” he said. “Nobody gave them a hope and they turned out to be the best thing there.” It did not surprise me. 

That was the festival where, as he was leaving, Neil was shoved up against a wall and searched for drugs by the police. He has never been a smoker - tobacco or anything else - or a drug user, so must have been chosen on appearance alone. (In his teens he could look a bit way out.) Anyway, they found him to be clean and sent him on his way. 

I have already told the next bit many times, so skip it if you've heard it:
I was paternally peeved. 

“Did you take down any of their numbers?” I asked. 

“No, why would I?” 

“Because you hadn't done anything wrong. If they'd done that to me I'd have taken down their numbers and written a stiff letter of complaint to the Chief Constable about it.” 

He shook his head: 

“They wouldn't have done it to you, Dad. You'd have walked down the middle of the road in your suit, tie and waistcoat and the only thing they might have said to you is: 'Good day, sir.'” 

A wryly accurate assessment which I doubt would still apply today. 

Enough for now. More fairly soon if my computer hasn't been packed for a move by then. The cat Shadow, unabashed by age, has found two new girlfriends next door. I fear he will strongly object to being shifted.

2 (25) THE REASONABLY SOON BIT.

WATCHING: AT HOME.

The impending election. 
Had your fill of rats-in-a-trap, oh-so-sincere, politicians yet? Fed up with the incessant string of patronisingly implausible promises? Begun to wonder how the hell Britain ever puts one foot in front of t'other? 
Join the club. 
But vote! 
As I have already indicated, I shall vote this time. I have no expectation that any of the prospective candidates will fulfil a fraction of their published proposals, but I shall go to the polls and vote for someone, I have no idea who and wouldn't say even if I knew. Enough that it will not be for a UKIP candidate: I think they are quasi-patriots and Johnson had their like in mind when he said: “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” 
End of political diatribe. 
THE DETECTIVES. 
Grimm still rattles along. 
Our hero has regained his unearthly powers, the love of his life has picked up a nifty new self-defence technique to protect herself when he is away and that nice little oriental station sergeant has finally been introduced to the world's most unreal real world. If you haven't seen it you should look in. It's charming and daft and the make-up's marvellous. 
Person of interest. 
Mr. Reese and Mr. Finch (together with their two NYPD helpmates) remain the persons of most definite interest in this sublime take on crime technology gone mad. It, too, is charming and daft; we love everything about it, especially the dog. 
The Mentalist. 
We have recorded the last ever episode. Could have ended when Patrick Jane did away with Red John but it didn't. We've since had all the stock situations including a flag-on-the-coffin funeral. The pleasant actors will be missed, but it really is time to go.
Safe House. 

This one is unlikely to go on too long. It is a four part thriller and it stars an actor who believes actors should never hang around long enough to be typecast, Christopher Eccleston. No doubt the series, like the actor, will keep moving and will be remarkably impressive. 
Inspector George Gently. 
Martin Shaw's Fabian of the Yard character is back and well on form. Another world. 
Longmire. 
Still the quirkiest cop show around. This series ran for ten episodes and ended with a question mark. 
AND THE REST. 
Peter Kay's car share. 
This new television series has the comedian and his bubbly companion, Sian Gibson, getting to know each other as they car share their way to and from work. They are a likeable pair and their car-bound double act could well become as popular as Rob Brydon's solo turn in Marion and Geoff (2000/03). Good viewing. 
Not to be deleted. 
I have not that many television recordings on our not to be deleted list. The Gruffalo twosome and Room on the Broom are there as is Nigel Kennedy at the Proms, a couple of Young Musician of the Year marvels and the best pianists at the last Leeds Piano competition. I have also kept Joseph Calleja's August 2013 concert in Malta because we love the spot where, with guest Sarah Ferguson, he sings “Can't help falling in love.” The duet seems at times to be sadly under-rehearsed and the BOV Joseph Calleja Children's Choir try hard to cover up the gaps, but in the orchestra behind the duettists, just up above Mr. Calleja's left shoulder, there sits a lovely, smiling flautist who clearly adores the song and cannot resist singing along with it. So far as we are concerned, she turns what might have been a minor disaster into a not to be deleted gem. I do hope nobody remonstrated with her afterwards. 
Another royal wedding. 
This time an acting royal. Well, he's King Louis XIV in his latest film, A Little Chaos, which he also directed. That's already close enough for my money. 

Whatever, it has been reported this week that actor Alan Rickman and his partner of 50 years, Rima Horton, have finally concluded they are compatible and have secretly married in New York. “Afterwards,” he said in an interview, “we walked across Brooklyn Bridge and had lunch.” 
I don't know them and have seen him only once off screen (at Anthony Minghella's memorial service), but I wish them both a happy and healthy future. 
On screen I have never seen Mr. Rickman give other than a mesmerizing performance (from the Sheriff of Nottingham to Severus Snape). Make no mistake, the man is an acting royal. 
I doff my cap.

Afraid I'm slightly late publishing this post. Put it down to age, my dears.